“I’m going for a smoke.” Nilima stalked out of the office.
She made for the stairs, longing to put some distance between herself and Shwetha, and Poorna, and the office, everything that reminded her that she was useless, that she couldn’t get anything right. The stairs were dim, but her feet found their familiar way up to the narrow windowless landing. On her right was a closed shutter under another large blue sign like the one on the outside of the building, proclaiming that this was Jagdip Book House. A feeble wash of daylight from downstairs alleviated the darkness. Nilima switched on the overhead light and walked up the stairs.
She came to an abrupt stop on the second-floor landing. There was no shutter here, just an iron door to the upper floor of the bookshop.
There was something on the ground: a cloth with a dark pattern. She flicked on the overhead bulb. No, not just a cloth but a shirt, trousers, leather shoes – a body. Her eyes travelled up from the feet to the man’s face—the fleshy nose, thick eyebrows, greying hair. It was the owner of Jagdip Book House, his face frozen in an expression of horror and pain.
What she had thought was a pattern on his shirt wasn’t a pattern at all: it was blood. On the floor too was a dark patch that began near his shoulder and extended to the door of the bookshop. She stepped back hastily, wondering whether the floor was uneven. If the blood had spread in the other direction, it might have reached the stairs, and she would have stepped in it…
She turned and hurtled down the stairs.
When she reached the office, Shwetha was still standing by Poorna’s desk, discussing the proposed Malleshwaram tour. It felt odd to hear them talking as if nothing had happened. Like she had stepped out of her life into one of the murder mysteries she read regularly, but Shwetha and Poorna hadn’t moved.
“What’s up, Nili amma?” Shwetha noticed her first.
“There…” Nilima pointed a finger upwards. Shwetha and Poorna’s heads tilted towards the ceiling: greyish white, with a damp patch and peeling paint in one corner.
“Upstairs?” Shwetha guessed.
Nilima stabbed the air with her upright finger. “Him. De…”
“Mr Desai?” Shwetha said. “From Jagdip Book House?”
“Which one?” said Poorna. “Jag or Dip?”
“Jagat.”
“What happened to him?” asked Shwetha.
“B-b-blood.”
“Eh?” said Shwetha.
“Dead.”
“What?” said Poorna.
Nilima took a deep breath. “I think. There’s a lot of blood.” She staggered back as Shwetha ran past her and sprinted to the stairs.
“Are you okay?” Poorna asked.
“Yes, of course I’m okay,” Nilima said defensively. As she made for the stairs again, she heard Poorna lock the office door behind her.
On the second floor, Shwetha was bending over the body. “Don’t touch him,” Nilima said sharply.
“Just checking for a pulse.” Shwetha gingerly touched his wrist. “No, nothing.”
Poorna was standing a few steps down the stairwell, her hands over her mouth. Nilima felt an odd relief at seeing her own shock echoed on Poorna’s face.
Shwetha’s poise did not waver. She dialled 100 and explained the situation, patiently answering questions and providing the address.
After Shwetha removed the phone from her ear, Poorna asked, “Shouldn’t we tell someone? The family?”
“Why is no one here yet?” Nilima glanced at her phone. “It’s nearly eleven. Oh, it’s Monday.”
“Yeah, they’re closed Mondays,” Shwetha said, thumbing her own phone. A loud ringtone made Nilima jump. The dead man’s shirt pocket was glowing.
“Is that you?” Nilima asked, just as Shwetha pressed a button and silenced Jagat’s phone.
“I was hoping he might have left his phone at home or something,” Shwetha explained. “We had exchanged numbers back when I’d first set up here, in case we needed to talk about anything related to the building.”
The dead man’s right arm was curled up towards his shoulder, as if he had tried to reach the phone in his pocket but hadn’t quite managed it.
“I have Sampath’s number.”
“Whose?”
Nilima felt their surprise. Not only was she new to the building, she was also the least friendly of the three Chikkamma women, less ready to exchange pleasantries with her colleagues, let alone near-strangers. “He’s one of the employees. The bald, short guy? He had given me his number once when he’d offered to find out about a book I wanted.”
“Could you call him then?”
Nilima couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. “I’ll do it from the terrace. I still want that smoke.”
She stepped carefully around the body. The light from the landing didn’t reach all the way up the stairs, but she didn’t think to turn on her phone’s flashlight, just kept pushing her feet on till she reached the heavier darkness that was the terrace door. She felt for the latch with her fingers and stumbled out.
The bright sunlight made her blink. She walked to the edge and leaned on the low wall, deeply breathing in the fresh air that didn’t smell of blood. Without an audience, her bravado melted away. She sank onto her knees, her fingers holding on to the rough brick of the wall. It took her several tries to light a cigarette.
Heart still thumping, she called Sampath. His voice boomed in her ear, and she swallowed before speaking.
“What? Madam, what did you say?”
“We found Mr Desai – Mr Jagat Desai. He’s passed away. I’m so sorry. We’ve called the police.” To her relief, he seemed to take the news more readily the second time. He didn’t ask any questions, just said he would inform “Dipen sir” right away.
Nilima sat on the filthy terrace floor till she heard the siren, till she saw the police cars turn into the lane. Then she got up and walked inside, latching the terrace door behind her.
Excerpted with permission from Chikkamma Tours (Pvt) Ltd: A Bibliomystery, Unmana, Tranquebar/Westland.
